The Background
by LardenceLover
Summary: BrianJustin. Meant to take place sometime mid-season two.


This self-imposed guilt has to stop, I tell myself. This self-inflicted punishment, this tightness in your throat has got to stop. I plead with myself, order myself. Beg myself. Make it stop. Quit living in it; quit taking it out on others. Quit being a drama princess and suck it the fuck up. People get hurt everyday. People are dying out there and you're concerned about a fucking gimp hand. Get over yourself.   
  
Get over it.   
  
But I feel it. And I see. And I can't close my eyes without either thinking what everyone else must be thinking, or hearing the crack and seeing the blinding light. That searing white pain, the flash of black. The snap of the bat, the sound of soft sobbing above me.   
  
I try not to think about who was the one sobbing. I know, but I avoid the thought. As I'm sure he does. It's too comforting an idea to fall back on. Too easy. Too perfect. And after prom, I'll never expect to have anything perfect ever again.   
  
Perfect doesn't exist.   
  
So I keep trying. Or stop trying. Both, really.   
  
I keep trying to shut them out. All those morons who care for me and love me; think they want me even though everything what's happened only shows what a fucking waste of space I really am. And I stop trying to draw. What's the point? Why bother? What makes him think that some expensive piece of shit computer is going to make everything better?   
  
Why can't he just let me give up?   
  
I really was good. Better than good, actually. I was great. Like Lindsey said: I have a way with the human form. I understand it, I can manipulate it, I can take a body's little imperfections and make them beautiful.   
  
I could, anyway.   
  
I still sense that knack. I still look at things and have an ache to record their contours, mold their shadows, make beauty out of their empty spaces. I still have the urge to draw people, things. It's not as if I expected that passion in me to go away. It's still there, festering and drowning and suffocating. It's the courage that's gone. And the talent. Without those two, the passion is worth shit.   
  
My high school art teacher used to tell me all the time what steady hands I had. I could paint the thinnest of lines, straight and narrow. I used to be able to give something a feather touch, like a breath of oil or charcoal onto the paper. I could blend pastel in the smallest of areas and never smear the rest, or brush too wide.   
  
Now when I'm serving at the diner, I can barely pour someone a cup of coffee without that fucking hand shaking. Without dumping the pot's contents into the customer's lap. I can barely hold that pencil. And it's not like before, when I barely held it purposefully to make a light stroke. It because physically I can't fucking hold it.   
  
I never thought what I would do without it. I've seemingly thought of everything before it in that light: from Daphne to my parents to my home to Brian. And amazingly enough, I've managed to lose all of them at some point and live, get over it.  More than I guessed myself capable of.  
  
But this... I never even considered losing my gift. It never crossed my mind for a second. And now it's gone. I never imagined living without my form of self-expression, my escape from everything real. I never realised what it would be like to lose that place I went to where I wasn't seventeen or gay or a son or a friend or a lover. I was just me.   
  
Now that it's gone, I know what it feels like to be lost. I know what it feels like to try to touch and feel around while still pulling away from everything or everyone that could case you harm.   
  
I can't live like this.   
  
But this isn't living, anyway. This is just existing. I'm nothing without it. It was the one thing that made me special. It was the one thing that no one else around me had like I did. And now... I'm just one of the faceless crowd in the background of their lives. No, I never really expected to be one of them, but I thought I might be at least a little more than this. I know they care, I know the love me genuinely, but it doesn't matter. I was barely good enough for them then; now what? And I can't ever remember being good enough for my family, even when I was creating those beautiful pictures.   
  
Never good enough. For any of them. And especially him.   
  
I don't bother to look up when I hear the door to the loft slide open. I just stare down at the street from the window, same as I've been doing for the last hour or so. I can't move. Hell, lately I can barely breathe. And every time I close my eyes, there's that sound, that sickening crack, and the blinding white light.  
  
He must think I'm not home because he doesn't call out like he usually does. My eyes peer up at the slowly darkening sky, noticing once again with that terrible, torturous ache how beautifully the dying hints of orange and red sunlight swell and melt into the purples and blues upon the clouds. It would make a good pastel. Watercolor would probably be even better.   
  
Stop it, Justin.   
  
I stare in front of me at my hands; resting up on the windowsill. Watch the gentle blue light of a renewed night falling across them. Another good painting. Fuck.   
  
I know he sees me now, curled up in a chair in front of the window. I know he does because I can feel his gaze on the side of my face, tracing my profile with his eyes. I fight an urge to shift uncomfortably. Maybe if I don't move, he'll ignore me.   
  
Maybe if I don't breathe, I'll die.

Yeah, I know.  Drama princess.  
  
He walks toward me, waiting for me to acknowledge him, to return his burning stare. I refuse, staring straight ahead out of the window as if I don't hear him. As if I've been sitting here my whole life, waiting for him to get home. That's no good.   
  
He stands beside me a moment, looking curiously at the sky outside, as if staring hard enough would tell him what I'm thinking. I know he's better off being left in the dark on that one. I still don't speak.   
  
His hand reaches out, I swallow a flinch, and he runs it through my hair. His hand comes to rest gently at the nape of my neck, rubbing comfortingly. But he doesn't speak, just plays with the short hairs there. I feel I'm about to fall asleep when his hand snakes around to rest on my right shoulder.   
  
I knew the silence couldn't last.   
  
"Draw it."   
  
I squint up at him. "What?"   
  
"Draw it. I know you're aching to."   
  
I feel like hitting him. " I can't."   
  
"Why not?"   
  
Fuck him and his logic. "Because I can't."   
  
"I got you the computer," he says with obnoxious reason.   
  
"Maybe I don't want to draw on a fucking computer."   
  
"... I paid a lot of money for it."   
  
"I didn't fucking ask you to."   
  
He can tell I'm becoming irritated and nods silently, staring back at the sky. "What do you want for dinner?"   
  
"You mean, what am I making?"   
  
"You don't have to cook if you don't want to."   
  
I don't know why that pisses me off so much. "What? Think I can't cook now?"   
  
"I didn't say that."   
  
"Well, what are you saying, Brian?"   
  
He looks down at me patiently, as if explaining to Gus why he shouldn't touch a hot stove. "I'm saying what do you fucking want for dinner?"   
  
"Just fuck off, Bri," I hiss, sliding off the chair and knocking him out of my way.   
  
His eyes close a split second and when he opens them, his face is clear of emotion. "Where are you going?"   
  
"The bathroom. Is that all right with you, your fucking majesty?"   
  
He doesn't answer. I go into the bathroom and lock the door. I lean my head down at the sink and run the cold water, splashing my face, ignoring the warm feel of salty tears trailing down my cheeks. I look at my red eyes and ruffled hair in the mirror, grimacing. What the hell is wrong with me? He's only trying to help.   
  
I don't want his help.   
  
Yes, I do. But I don't, too.   
  
He sees through me. Just like I see through him and know he cares for - possibly loves - me, he can see through me and know that I'm not okay even if I say I am until my face turns blue. He knows I'm dying slowly. He's trying to stop it from happening. He's trying to save me.   
  
Suddenly anger flares. I don't need a fucking savoir. I can take care of my self. Who the hell does he think he is? One minute he's telling me to fuck off, I don't mean anything, and the next he's buying me expensive computers and trying to save me from myself? Well, fuck him.   
  
Fuck everything.   
  
I wipe away the fresh tears, blow my nose and wash my face again. Ignoring how much like Brian it smells, I wipe my face with a white towel. Opening the bathroom door, I head back to the living room. My body freezes at the sight of Brain sitting where I was, looking out the window. That look on his face reminds me of pain, but it can't be.  Not really.  
  
It just can't.   
  
Quietly, I walk over to where I have my sketchpad and a set of pencils laid away. The smell of paper and eraser stirs a warm, familiar tinge inside me. I sit down on the floor, a ways away from him and no longer caring if he knows I'm there. I open the book, select a pencil and look up to find him staring intently at me.   
  
"What are you doing?"   
  
"What does it look like?" My voice comes out weaker than I meant it to, but thankfully he ignores it.  
  
"What about the computer?"   
  
"I'll try it later. Lemme get a sketch down first."   
  
"Of me?" A cocked eyebrow. "Again?"  
  
"My favourite subject." I shrug.   
  
His eyebrow arches slightly and he fights his own smile.   
  
"Look back at the window."   
  
He does as instructed and I start to sketch. His hair is thick, but not so much that it doesn't need a feathery texture. His brow line is a bit stronger than his chin. His tie is looser since I went into the bathroom, hanging about his neck haphazardly, like it does when he tugs at it. There's a crease right there in his shirt, between the collar and the first button... his fingers bend inward, like he's holding something... Brian clears his throat and I look up.   
  
"What?"   
  
"You done yet?"   
  
"Patience."   
  
"Patience nothing. I've been sitting in the same position for almost an hour now."   
  
I frown and look at the clock on the wall. He's right. The sunlight outside is gone beside a faint brighter hue of blue. My neck is sore, my head throbbing. Better finish soon. "Oh. Sorry. Almost done, really."   
  
I begin the shadows, first the ones above his eyes, along his nose. My pencil traces lightly along his jaw-line before I make a dark swipe of black. Perfect. Too perfect. Am I really drawing this? The curve of his bottom lip has a small shadow beneath it...   
  
I blink and it's done. I stare at it first, disbelieving that I actually drew it with my useless hand and fleeting talent. Brian steals a glance at me and must confuse my expression for a crushed or frustrated look. He bites his lip slightly and gets out of the chair, crouching down in front of me and once again running a hand through my hair.   
  
"It's okay. At least you tried. You didn't give up."   
  
"No... Brian, I..." Words are useless. I twist my arms, turning the picture toward him. At first he tries to avoid looking. His eyes drop down.  He frowns, prying the paper from my hands, tracing the blackened pencil-line of his shoulder with a thumb.  
  
"Justin..."   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"Do you see this?"   
  
I smile. "I see it."   
  
"... You did this." He sounds as surprised as I am.   
  
"I think so."   
  
He searches for words adequate enough. "It's fucking amazing."  
  
"Is it?"   
  
He looks at me like I'm insane. "Yes."   
  
"I had a good subject."  
  
He ignores my comment.  "This is the best you've done in ages. Since..." and he trails off, his frown more pronounced.  
  
"I know."   
  
"You do." Our eyes connect and he leans forward, brushing his lips across mine. "We all know."   
  
"No, you don't." I kiss him back. "But you will."


End file.
